


In The Dark, I Still Can See You

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Oak and Ivy [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ancestor Guardian, Ancestors, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Tragedy, Bards College, Dark, Depression, Despair, Desperation, F/M, Fake Character Death, Feral Behavior, Gen, Guardian Spirit, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Magic, Memory Loss, Nightmares, Not Really Character Death, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Passion, Regret, Separation Anxiety, Solitude, Spells & Enchantments, Vampires, Visions, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-10 00:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6930868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just as she thought she could turn her life for the better, Illa's whole world is shattered. The Dunmer rogue has joined the Companions and even risen in rank enough to be accepted by Kodlak's most trusted comrades - but it turns out that the honourable warriors of the Circle bear a terrible curse, one that Illa fails to handle. Hircine's influence warps her mind, and she barely escapes becoming a completely feral werewolf... but that only happens because she swaps one darkness for another. Now a member of the Volkihar clan with no memory of her past, she keeps having persistent visions of her husband Viarmo, whom she was planning to return to and who now believes her dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SavageShady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavageShady/gifts).



> The format may seem sketchy and stream-of-conscience-like, because I mainly focused on the feelings of Illa and Viarmo than on outlining the plot. The next part of the series will be more linear and contain more action and dungeon-delving.

It seems that the cow has an enormous patch of glistening black fur on its side, standing out against the bushy, mangled brown tufts covering the rest of its body. But as she draws nearer, there is a faint humming sound, as if a sorcerer is preparing to cast a lightning spell, and a small dense dark cloud soars up into the air, revealing a deep, gaping red hole, looking like a chasm in the realm of some Daedra Lord, with glistening white bones crossing it like bridges.  
  
The short-haired Imperial woman in light armour takes a few staggering steps backwards, retching - but then gulps in some air and approaches the rotting carcass again, her fists clenched resolutely. She is a Companion, darnit! She has faced wild beasts, and giants, and even a couple of undead! She is not going to get all squeamish in front of some stupid dead cow! To muster up more courage, she dares to give the poor animal's body a small kick, wakening a few straggler flies, which rise heavily off the oozing flesh to catch up with the rest of the swarm - fat, clumsy, and moving in zigzags, as though drunk on the cow's blood.  
  
'We left poor Milkie like this to see what you can make of the... wound,' the farmer speaks up meekly behind her back. 'At first, we thought it was a giant thinning our herd, but we make regular offerings - and besides, a giant wouldn't leave a mark like that... Would he?'  
  
'No, it's definitely not a giant,' another voice cuts in. A strong, resolute female voice that the young Imperial recognized immediately, whirling around and pressing her stiffened arms against her hips at the sight of her superior.  
  
'A-Aela?' she stammers, letting the formidable red-haired huntress pass by her and kneel in front of the cow, fingering the jagged edges of the red chasm. 'Have you come to check on me? I'm doing fine!'  
  
'I have come to take over from you, Ria,' Aela replies coldly and passes her hand along the hapless animal's fur, as though petting it. The look in her eyes is intent, and metallically sharp. 'I will be handling the job from now on'.  
  
'But- but!' Ria lets out a spluttering cough of protest. 'I haven't done anything wrong! I don't deserve this punishment!'  
  
'This is not a punishment, whelp,' Aela snaps, in that fierce, wolf-like way of hers that always makes Ria feel small and frightened. 'This is a precaution. The Circle believes that the local farmholds are being ravaged by the same wild beast. It is strong, and very dangerous - and you are our youngest fighter. Go back to the meadhall, have Farkas find something for you. Like breaking up a tavern brawl'.  
  
Ria bites into her lower lip, deeply offended. Who does Aela think she is, some sort of milk drinker? She can handle herself against any old furball - why, she killed a bear yesterday!... But the Huntress is a member of the Circle, and junior fighters like herself are honour-bound to obey the Circle's orders...   
  
Pouting like a little girl that has just been told she will 'know when she is older', the young Companion drags herself back to Whiterun. If only Illa were here... She could talk to her. You can talk to Illa about anything - she will mock you at first, and maybe say something rude, but in the end she will give you a tight, warm hug, and tell you to keep your chin up no matter what... Ria used to detest that sly little Dark Elf at first - for rising through the ranks faster than herself, even though Ria had been around longer. And for the way she behaved around Athis, twisting her finger on his chest, playing with his hair, whispering things that made the tips of his ears flare up a vivid pink... But Illa always covered Ria's back in battle, saving her life on that horrible night when the city was attacked by vampires - and the moment she realized that her Imperial Shield Sister had feelings for her grumpy kinsman, she immediately backed off, saying, with that careless half-smirk, 'I do this flirting thing for fun - and there is no fun in breaking the heart of a pretty little thing like you'.  
  
Ah, if only Illa were here... She would think of something to make Ria feel better - like a heart-to-heart talk, a drinking game, or climbing the Gildergreen and lowering a bucket on Heimskr's head... But she has not seen her for weeks; she is not worried, because it is normal for Illa to disappear for long spells like this - but she misses her. By Ysgramor, how she wishes she were back already from whatever quest she's on!  
  
  
***  
  
  
The trail of the creature that killed the cow is faint, very faint; its tracks have been trampled over by the other cattle, no doubt terrified into a blank frenzy at the sight of one of the herd dead and mangled like this; by the farmer and his kin; by Ria, Ysgramor bless that little whelp - always so eager for battle. Peeling off the web of these intertwining foot and hoof prints, sifting through the multitude of scents, Aela finally reaches what she is looking for - like a scholar, who, after hours of gruelling digging and scrubbing and dusting, manages to make out the letters of an ancient text carved into mossy rock surface. And she reads her letters with crystal clarity; they tell her of a giant, heaving bulk of black fur descending on the drowsy herd, tearing into one cow and dragging it off - and then, tearing at the poor creature's flesh, shredding, clawing, coughing on blood, in a hurry to sate the burning hunger sent by Hircine... They tell her of the creature falling back, slowly, from the cow's steaming carcass, and bolting off into the shadows. They tell her where it has headed, and in which direction she should follow it.  
  
Aela lifts herself from her crouching pose and, with a curt reassuring nod to the farmer, heads off into the hills. As soon as she is out of sight, she closes her eyes, holds her breath and allows Hircine's power to flow through her veins, quickening the flow of her blood, sharpening her senses, transforming her body.   
  
Before her face is distorted beyond recognition in a bestial snarl, she smiles a soft, slightly melancholy smile - so out of place in the midst of shape-shifting - remembering her first night as a werewolf. It seemed so overwhelming - having thick black fur tear its way out of her skin, and gasping with pain as her bones cracked and stretched and the joints in her knees bent backwards. After reverting to human form, she whimpered for hours in Skjor's arms... Now it feels like routine - another day, another transformation. And Skjor is gone.  
  
  
Aela's werewolf form allows her to cover more ground faster, whirling past rocks and patches of dry grass in a black blur - and never, not for a second, losing the trail. Soon, the terrain around her begins to change; the rocky slopes become more wooded, and the shadows darken as walls of swaying pine trees close over her head. She has entered Falkreath hold. No wonder the beast chose to seek shelter here - Hircine's presence is strong in these dense, wild woods, and once the Prince even called the Hunt in one of the caverns.  
  
Aela slows down, taking deep breaths of the heady, pine-scented air. The creature's smell is strong here; it tickles her nostrils, making her snout twitch and her yellowed eyes flash. In a few minutes, she comes to a full stop and waits for the werewolf form to slip off her shoulders like a cloak of dark fur, leaving her naked, her white skin almost seeming to glow in the green murk. Entering a small clearing, she glances around, and calls out softly,  
  
'Sister... I know you are here! Come out!'  
  
The woods answer her with silence. With a swift jerk of her head, she flips back her hair and listens to the drowsy murmurs of the great pines. Nothing... And then - a small, barely audible crack of a twig, as though someone has snapped their fingers. Aela smiles, and walks in the sound's direction, dancing lightly on tiptoe as the dry moss and the pine needles littering the ground are prickling the soles of her feet. If some wandering bard chanced to see her now, graceful, slender, gliding through the forest with barely a shred of clothing on, he would have gasped in awe, mistaking her for a gentle woodland spirit from ancient Cyrodiilic legends - and would surely have refused to believe that, but a few moments ago, she had been a feral beast.  
  
When she reaches a small thicket of smaller, frailer trees, clinging on to the roots of the mighty pines, Aela stirs the branches slightly with her hand and peers through their dark net.  
  
'You have always had such perfect table manners,' she says with friendly mockery. 'Mauling cows is really so unlike you...'  
  
There is a faint rustling sound in the middle of the thicket; it steadily goes louder and louder, approaching Aela, till finally, two bony grey-skinned hands emerge out the darkness and grasp at the branches, drawing them apart, and a Dunmeri woman stumbles forward, panting slightly.  
  
Like Aela, she is almost entirely naked; her body is covered with a thick layer of scratches, and splattered with mud and dried-up blood - the only thing that stands out against this dark-grey background is a small ring that she is wearing on the golden chain round her neck; it glows softly with an enchantment, swinging like a pendulum right over the Dunmer's heart. Her face is drawn and haggard, barely visible beneath greasy strands of unwashed red hair, and her crimson eyes burn hungrily in their bruised sockets.  
  
'Go away,' she wheezes hoarsely, her voice fading into a cough; it seems that she is beginning to forget how to use it.   
  
'Only with you at my side, Sister,' Aela replies, attempting to take the other woman by the hand; but the Dunmer leaps out of reach, snapping her teeth at her - and then lets out a painful, groan-like dry sob.  
  
'Can't you see?' she breathes, her sloping forehead creased by deep lines. 'I am going feral - soon there will be nothing meric left in me. I am better off where I am'.  
  
Aela shakes her head.  
  
'Remember the night when Skjor died?' she asks in a quiet, earnest voice. 'How I rushed blindly through the wilds, clawing at tree trunks and tearing out deer's throats? And how you brought me back?'  
  
The Dunmer lowers her head, avoiding her Shield Sister's earnest gaze.  
  
'You are stronger than me... I cannot be brought back. I guess my grandfather was right - I have no willpower, and I keep biting off more than I can chew... Get it?' she smiles weakly.   
  
'Illa...' Aela begins - but the Dunmer interrupts her with an angry snarl.  
  
'There is no more Illa! Illa as you know her is dead - has been dead for a while. You can tell this to everyone...' her face clouds suddenly, and she grabs at her ring the way someone dying from heart failure grabs at his heart.  
  
With a single violent tug, Illa tears the ring off the chain and hands it to Aela, her lips and the tips of her fingers trembling.  
  
'Please... If all that Shield Sister shebang still means anything to you...' she says falteringly, 'Could you... do me one last little favour? Go to Solitude. Find an Altmer named Viarmo. Give him this - and tell him that... that...' she bites into her lips and turns away again. It takes her a while to find strength to finish the sentence - and when she does, her voice is barely louder than a whisper,  
  
'Tell him that I am dead... And that before I died, I said that I love him... That I have always loved him...'  
  
  
***  
  
  
'Come now, Jorn,' the Headmaster says, smiling broadly. 'Don't you think that rhythm needs a little variety? Try improvising a little instead of just reproducing what you've learned'.  
  
The apprentice bards lower their instruments and exchange amazed looks. Master Viarmo, the strict, demanding teacher, telling them to improvise? It can only mean one thing: Mistress Illari is coming back.  
  
A couple of years ago, no one would have as much as thought of improvising in their instrument class with Dean Inge whenever Master Viarmo was present for an inspection - or in their drama classes with the Headmaster and Dean Giraud. It was not as if Viarmo was unkind - he treated each and every student with utmost respect, standing up for poor Illdi every time Mistress Pantea started yelling at her for being 'a baying donkey instead of a singer'. But he did not abide rule-breaking; precision in performance was what he demanded most, not allowing them to alter a single note, a single word in what they had to learn. Once, when Jorn tried to object, arguing that being a bard was not only about playing by the notes, but about instinct and passion as well, the Headmaster even lost his temper.   
  
It all changed after the fateful journey to Windhelm, where Viarmo and the Dean of History went to visit Adonato Leontelli, a prominent novelist. Dean Giraud returned in a couple of days, morose and evasive - and the Headmaster lingered for two more weeks. When he did finally come back, he brought with a young Dunmeri woman that he had met in Eastmarch, and married after a whirlwind courtship.  
  
Her name was Illari Oreyn, but he called her Illa, in a breathless sort of way, as if he was taking two swift sips of wine - one for each syllable. The apprentices, in turn, addressed her as Mistress Illari, with the respect befitting a headmaster's wife. But that was about where their reverence ended. Rumour had it that she had married Viarmo merely to get out of the slums; everyone suspected that she was using him, except for the poor besotted mer himself. Whatever her motives, though, one thing was certain: with Illa around, Viarmo became different. More... the apprentices kind of had trouble describing it - more free, more inspired. He started encouraging his students to improvise, to trust their hearts rather than their heads - and even apologized to Jorn for that argument they had had. And when, completely out of the blue, Illa left him, he instantly reverted to his meticulous old self. And has remained this self until today.  
  
'Why the long faces all of a sudden?' Viarmo asks in the same cheerful tone. 'Aren't you the ones to always beg me to cut you loose?'  
  
The apprentices say nothing, shuffling their note sheets and coughing sheepishly - till Illdi, wide-eyed and blushing, blurts out,  
  
'Master Viarmo... have you made peace with your wife?'  
  
Illdi seems to regret these words the moment they leave her lips: she raises her hand to her mouth and bites into her nails with a wild, violent force - as if she were dying of hunger and they were her last morsels of bread. The other students, too, stiffen in their seats, expecting the Headmaster to yell at the foolish girl for her insolence - but instead, he laughs. A carefree, happy, loud laugh, of the kind they have not heard from him in a long time.  
  
'I have indeed,' he says, after catching his breath. 'She has this fixed idea that I am too good for her...'  
  
'Any man is too good for that one,' Aia mutters through her teeth. Of the four apprentices, she has always been the one to treat Mistress Illari with most distrust - but then again, she has not exactly had a flourishing relationship with the rest of her gender.   
  
Fortunately, Viarmo is in too sunny a mood to pay any heed to comments.  
  
'But now, she has joined the Companions, doing honourable deeds throughout the land as a way of redeeming herself,' he goes on, fumbling inside his coat pockets and producing a small sheet of folded paper. 'She writes that she will return home... return to me...'  
  
He looks ready to talk on and on about his Illa, his eyes alight with a warm golden glow - but he is interrupted by a tall, red-haired Nord woman, clad in a set of ancient-looking armour and wearing green war paint, which crosses her face in three slanting dashes, like claw marks. She pokes her head inside the classroom and draws attention to herself with a cough. An obvious child of the outdoors, she maneuvers clumsily among desks and bookcases, awkward and a bit dazed by her scholarly surroundings.  
  
'Are you Viarmo?' she asks as she draws nearer to the Headmaster, in a sharp, loud voice - the voice of someone used to giving out commands. 'I have a message... From your wife'.  
  
Viarmo prepares to listen, his smile broader and happier than ever - and then, his eyes meet the woman's, and the glow in them grows a little dimmer, his eyebrows slowly knitting into a concerned frown. The apprentices crane their necks to make out what has caused this change - and all of them (except, perhaps, Aia) feel a sudden, uncontrollable jolt of pain somewhere deep inside their chests. The red-headed woman's face is a frozen, ashen mask; her lips are pursed tightly together, and the look in her eyes is even more darkened than in the Headmaster's.  
  
In tense, icy cold silence, she takes out a small gold ring and drops it into Viarmo's hand.  
  
'I am sorry,' she says, in a muffled, hollow voice. 'She... she died in my arms. The last thing she said was... that she loves you'.  
  
The golden light goes out completely; Viarmo's eyes grow glassy and unseeing, and the fist with the ring in it droops down limply. He thanks the woman with a weak nod - and then, remains standing, petrified, statue-like, on one spot, his face white as snow and completely expressionless.  
  
The letter, which he has been holding in the other hand, slides out of his grasp and flutters to the floor like a dead leaf. It lands right at Illdi's feet; she forces herself not to look, her heart aching with pity towards the Headmaster - she feels that taking a peek at his private correspondence with his wife would be a terrible thing to do, especially after this devastating news... But, quite in spite of herself, she manages to catch a glimpse of the opening paragraph,  
  
 _'Dearest, dearest, dearest Vivi,_  
  
 _I miss you so much! I dream of you every night - mostly in contexts that will make you blush. And at long last, I feel that I have proved myself worthy of you, of your love. The Companions are going to accept me into the Circle - which is made out of the most trusted, the most honourable warriors - and after the ceremony, I will be off to Solitude. I will see my darling bard again - and this time, there will be no more sudden partings'._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is written from the point of view of Modryn Oreyn, whose spirit acts as Illa's ancestor guardian.

I am always near. Always watching. I am the wind swaying the tops of the ancient fir trees that cast dappled shadows on your path. I am the whirl of sparkling white dust that bites your face as you trudge through the wilds, waist-deep in the snow. I am the gentle ripple on the water that you drink, bending down to a forest creek, and the crimson spark in your reflection's eyes. Your eternal shadow. Your guide and your conscience. Your ancestor guardian.  
  
I know you resent my presence, and I understand. I was once like you, young, stubborn, indignant at being given counsel, at being judged. But it is my sworn duty to watch over you; at times I myself wish I had not been entrusted with this task - you are wanton, careless, youthfully selfish; each step that you take brings you dangerously close to disgracing our family, so close that I struggle with the urge to look away in despair. But I shall not look away. Never.  
  
I am watching you now, too, concealed in the walls of an abandoned fortress that is now home to a bandit clan. The outlaws are moving across the courtyard, among piles of rubble and makeshift tents - minding their own business, sharpening weapons, whistling snatches of those bawdy Nord songs, exchanging short, gruff remarks... Not knowing that their fate has already been sealed. And then, just as the watchman bends over the wooden railing attached to the top of the crumbling wall, to report to the chief that all is clear - a great beast, black as night, with yellow eyes blazing with wild, all-consuming hunger, leaps in through the ruined gateway and then stops and draws itself up to its full height, the claws of its hind legs digging deep into the frosted earth, hot vapour gushing out of its flaring nostrils. Waiting. Daring the bandits to attack. The ragged men and women form a frozen semi-circle, facing the nightmarish creature, not daring to make the slightest noise. Finally, the chief gives a violent push in the back to one of the archers - a small, thick-set Bosmer, rather resembling that fellow I knew long, long ago... Maglir, I think his name was. He staggers forward and, quivering all over, slowly raises his bow, aiming the beast between the eyes. This is the signal; the bandits have accepted the rules; the game has begun.  
  
The Bosmer does not even have time to cry out; the great black blur whizzes forward, and the bow drops on the ground with a soft thump, inches away from the face of the fallen archer, his orange eyes forever widened, a thick rivulet of blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth.  
  
The beast bends over the Bosmer, other bandits looking on in horrorstruck silence; the crisp winter air rings with monotonous _drip-drip-drip_ , as the blood from the claw that the creature used to slit the archer's throat splatters down onto the front of his armour. And then, with an ear-splitting squelch, the black, leering jaws dig deep into the archer's chest.  
  
I watch in agony, as if it is my own body that is being mauled and clawed apart, raw, steaming flesh splitting and peeling off to expose the heart; the crimson fountains bursting out of the Bosmer's body seem to scorch my face... I feel so helpless, so utterly helpless. If only I could stop the feral, dark force that boils within the beast's body, revelling in a savage, carnivorous orgy... But I cannot. I know; I have tried many times. All in vain.  
  
The beast raises its head, panting, a faint growl bubbling somewhere in the back of its throat. Their daze suddenly broken, the bandits scatter, screaming, bumping into each other, tripping over their own feet. None of them is too quick for the beast. There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide; no walls, no rocks, no fallen tree trunks can provide shelter against hunger incarnate. One pounce - and it is all over. One by one, they fall, the black nightmare overpowering them, their arms fluttering helplessly in the air as the yellow fangs scrape the flesh off their bones - fluttering like the wings of a captured butterfly.  
  
The chief is the last, coming down with his axe in his hand. Almost immediately after he stops screaming, the beast vanishes. The dark shadow is gone, like a pile of ash swept away by a gust of wind. And I am finally able to see its captive, released from the clutches of the nightmare into reality. I am finally able to see you.  
  
You stand over the dead body of the bandit chief, naked, shivering, silent tears streaming down your cheeks. Lifting your hand to your face, you wipe the traces of blood from your chin, your gaze still blank, your mind still recovering from what has just happened. Then, as the world takes shape around you, you let out a violent, throbbing sob and sink to your knees next to the dead bandit.  
  
He is a Redguard, young, with thick black hair carelessly tied into long braids; he has a strong cleft chin and broad cheekbones, brought out by pale-yellow war paint. One of the many male looks that count as handsome in your book. If he were still alive, you would have shamed me by flirting with him. You pass your hand across his twisted brow, gazing into his glassy, rolled up eyes, still sobbing. You look like a child, a little girl that wakes up one day to find her parents gone; your mouth is half-open, and your eyebrows are slightly arched, three deep lines forming in between them. I know this look; I saw it before on a face almost identical to yours. Your grandmother's.  
  
Sometimes I wonder if this is the reason I was chosen among all other ancestor spirits of the Oreyn clan to be your guardian... You are the spitting image of the woman I fell in love with over two hundred years ago. You even bear the same name. Illari. Illa.  
  
My Illa was a young, wide-eyed adventurer, always gazing at the world around her in silent wonderment. Always curious. Always surprised by the unfamiliar customs of the Imperial Province. Always getting into trouble. A little Ashlander that left her tribe, unable to resist the wanderlust sparked by the long fireside stories of a stranger, born on a certain day to uncertain parents, that had managed to win the trust of her kin. When, a hopelessly green but eager new recruit, she first walked into the hall of the Fighters' Guild, she knocked over a weapon stand, scattering swords and claymores over the floor with a deafening clatter that I can still hear, two centuries later. She irritated me at first, and I did not spare my imagination inventing insults when she asked me to repeat my orders or did not follow them to the letter. I do not know when, or how, my annoyance turned into affection. All I remember is that when, in the bluish semidarkness of an Ayleid ruin, ankle-deep in water, a few feet away from the dead body of an outlaw we had been tracking down, with a bleeding, hastily healed wound in her shoulder, she kissed me, it seemed so natural, so logical, so appropriate that I would have yelled at her if she hadn't. From that point on, we were always together, side by side in everything - our love, our work, and our secret quest to bring down our rival guild, the Blackwood Company.  
  
You know that story; your father must have told it to you dozens of times. How that bunch of self-proclaimed heroes for hire turned out to be addling the minds of their warriors with Hist sap, and how his parents, the heroes from the Fighters' Guild, put an end to the Company's shady operation. Only he did not know what price had to be paid for unmasking the mercenaries from Blackwood. Neither I nor my Illa ever told this to our boy; she was eaten from within by burning shame until the very day she left.  
  
In order to discover the dark secret of the Blackwood Company, Illa infiltrated their ranks, and drank some Hist sap herself. While under its influence, she slaughtered an entire village, convinced that she was battling goblins. And her expression when she awoke, in my arms, in the middle of the street in the city of Leyawiin, under sickly-grey rain, was exactly the same as yours is now. I look into your face, warped by guilt and pain and self-hatred, and it seems to me that it is still year 433 of the Third Era, and I am still alive, still kneeling in the sticky mud in Leyawiin, pressing my Illa against my chest, and she is looking up at me, eyebrows arched, and whispering, her voice like a groan, choking on the mixture of raindrops and her own tears,  
  
_'Modryn... What have I done... All those people... I... I am a monster, Modryn... I am a monster...'_  
  
But what am I saying... So like an age-old ghost, losing myself in my own reminiscences. This is not the Third Era, and you are not the Illa that wept in my arms in Leyawiin. Your plight is different; perhaps even graver.  
  
It pains me to watch you slip away; to see your soul consumed by the darkness of Hircine and to know that there is nothing I can do to release you. To know that it is all my fault. You are clearly more inclined towards magic and stealth - but I wanted you to become a warrior, to continue the Oreyn tradition; I forced you to join the Companions; I nagged you to keep accepting missions from them; I rejoiced when, at long last, Skjor invited you into the Circle. I should have known. I should have foreseen.   I should have interfered and stopped the ritual - then none of this would have happened. You are too young; your will is too weak; you were not ready to contain the beast within you. You have lost the battle for your own body. The werewolf is growing stronger every day; I can feel it. Soon, I fear, you will lose yourself in the darkness entirely; you will 'go feral', as that Aela woman put it, shed your elven form forever, and spend the rest of your days howling at the moon in the marshlands and massacring entire farmholds, leaving a trail of blood and death behind you wherever you go.  
  
I cannot bear these thoughts any longer; I materialize into my spectral form and glide up to you, attempting to put my hand on your shoulder. My fingers go right through you; you start and turn around. And the fear and shame in your face are instantly replaced by an angry scowl.  
  
'Leave me alone,' you snap at me, stepping out of my reach.  
  
Your voice lashes at me like a whip. Illa, oh Illa, if only you knew... I have never been the one for tender words, either in live or in death; it all sounds so well inside my mind, but I have no way of explaining out loud how I feel. Illa. My Illa. My darling grandchild. My Ashland blossom. Why can't I tell you; why can't you see..? My Guild, my life's work, which I strove with all my might to protect and lead to prosperity, was ruined, shattered to pieces when the Empire fell. My beloved wife left me forever, called away yet again by her wanderlust, to explore what lay beyond the otherworldly door in Niden Bay; she promised, she swore that she would come back, but she never did - I can only assume that she perished there, on the other side of the door, and that her soul was claimed by some evil Daedra, because I did not meet her beyond death. My own life was ended by some Orcish fanatic who sought to reclaim the helm of Oreyn Bearclaw, which had brought upon our clan's heads the curse of Malacath. My homeland, which I had left to seek my fortune as a blade for hire, but which I still hold dear with all my heart, was decimated by the wrath of the Red Mountain. My son, my pride and my hope, spent his entire life searching in vain for a place he could call home and, in his final years, was reduced to a drunken refugee, daydreaming about the Morrowind of old and hissing in helpless anger at the insults of Nord barbarians. You are all that's left, Illa. The last treasure of the Oreyn family. A treasure that was entrusted into my care and that I failed to protect. I do not ask for forgiveness because I do not deserve it. All I can do is try to comfort you in these last few months while you are still yourself.  
  
I move closer to you once again, reaching out to you with my hand. My touch envelops you in a glowing fiery aura; but this time, it is not to strike down your foes. It is to keep you warm.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is wriiten from two points of view at once: Viarmo's and Illa's. His is regular font; hers is italics.

I never thought I would react so... calmly when the woman from the Companions brought me news of Illa's death. When the fateful words were spoken, and, small and light and metallically cold, Illa's wedding band landed in my palm, there were none of those fits of thrashing and wailing or attempts at suicide that had worried Giraud and Inge so much when she first left me. Instead, I thanked the red-haired messenger, quietly and politely, and went on about my business. We were staging a performance for the Jarl's court, and as the Headmaster of the College, I had to make sure that everything went smoothly, that no-one forgot their lines, and that the set did not come crushing down round our ears.   
  
And I still go on about my business. Checking exam essays. Sorting through paperwork. Holding classes. The jagged scar in my heart is so deep, deep down, that at times even I myself forget about its existence, feeling numb and hollow and slightly cold, but otherwise quite comfortable... like one feels when drifting off to sleep after crying all night long. There is only one thing that makes the old wound tear open, spewing blood with such force that I bend over and open my mouth in a noiseless scream. Memories.  
  
They surface inside my mind at the most inopportune moments. When I am talking to someone at the College's common dinner table, and my glance suddenly slides over to a goblet she once drank out of, smiling at me over its edge. Or when I walk up to a bookcase to fetch some tome I need, and freeze, staring at the spine of some adventure novel we would read aloud to one another in the evenings, me acting out the parts of all the male characters and her, all the females, taking great effort to change our voices beyond recognition and laughing like little children at each other's antics. Or when, hurrying down the street on some errand, I spot a dragon's tongue flower growing between two mossy cobblestones, and have to pass my hand over my eyes, stunned by an image of her picking a flower, just like this one, and tucking it behind her ear.  
  
I see her lying wrapped in the crumpled sheets in the rosy morning light, her eyelashes fluttering gently. I see her running her fingers through her hair, thinking about something, and then clapping her hand against her forehead with a broad grin - an elaborate plan has just been born. I see her with her face lit up like with girlish glee as she tries on a jeweled circlet and a matching pair of earrings that I have bought her... with real rubies, which seem to dull compared to the lava-like flame of her eyes. I see her rushing to my protection during one of our chance get-togethers in the wilds, after our break-up - tearing through the flanks of her enemies, her hand firm, her sword merciless, her whole body transformed by battle fury into an unstoppable whirlwind. I see her choking on tears, begging forgiveness, again and again, for the wrong I have long forgiven. I see her leaning towards me, flushed, eyes half-closed, licking the blood from my bite off her lip with that teasing flick of her tongue.  
  
Each of these recollections leaves me breathless, elated, reliving, for a moment, the joy of looking into her eyes, or hearing her voice, or touching her skin - and then, like a bird shot by a hunter, my heart whirls down from the heavenly heights, and I realize, with a crippling surge of pain, that none of this will ever happen again. That there will be no more sly smiles over a small, smooth, velvety-grey shoulder. No more little races of nimble fingers up and down my chest. No more spontaneous dancing to music only the two of us can hear. No more crazy stories to be added by me to the Edda upon her insistence. No more sudden meetings in the middle of nowhere - no more exchanges of snide remarks, always, as if we were part of some endless, repetitive novel, followed by tackling some danger side by side, followed by wild, ferocious love-making, followed by heart-to-heart conversations, where every word is proof of how much she loves me, try as she might to conceal it... followed by some more love-making and a bittersweet parting. No more fits of loud, insane laughter, our two voices merging in one. No more self-composed songs with hints at events known only to us. No more joy, no more rapture. No more Illa.  
  
  
  
 _I have little recollection of the time before Lord Harkon bestowed the Gift of his blood upon me. I know that the name the members of the Court address me with has been suggested by Garan Marethi. Dunriel, Dark Beauty... I can only assume that once I used to have a different name, a different life. Not that it changes anything. As I have been told numerous times by our Lord, my whole being is now pledged to Clan Volkihar; the power I have been granted makes the pathetic existence I doubtlessly led as a mortal so utterly unimportant._  
  
 _They tell me I was found during the raid on the Hall of the Vigilant, a feral werewolf forced by the servants of Stendarr to shed the form of the beast, weak, shivering, chained to a heavy cast iron ring in the floor. One of Lord Harkon's servants enthralled me, making me gather all of my remaining strength and lash out on my captors, and after the wrath of the Volkihar was unleashed in full and the last of the Vigilants lay dead, the victors took me with them. I was of use to them for a while, even more so after my injuries were healed, and for the aptitude I showed during the mission in Dimhollow Crypt, helping retrieve the Elder Scroll - and set Lady Serana free, of course - I was made one of the Clan. Such is the story of how Dunriel came to be, and I accept it without too many questions. I am not sure if it is normal for our kind to forget our previous existences - Lord Harkon seems to recollect his... Perhaps my mind had been made too frail first by Hircine's influence, and then by being enthralled, and the shock of the final glorious transformation was too much for it... In any case, I do not complain. I am quite content being Dunriel. Like I said, Lord Harkon has made me see that my former life matters little, and I am perfectly capable of surviving without its burden. Though sometimes, there are... reminders._  
  
 _As, after a long and fulfilling night in the service of the Clan and its Lord, I climb into my coffin and shut the lid, my mind is sometimes visited by... visions. Flashes. Barely coherent, like mismatched pages of a ruined book. They tell me little of who I was and what I did before becoming a vampire. In fact, they do not even concern my own self that much. They concern a man._  
  
 _Always one man, incidentally. Which is rather surprising, given my current ways of entertaining myself. Nothing like heading to Orthjolf straight after being with Vingalmo and watching the two clash afterwards... Could it be that I was more virtuous as a mortal? Something tells me that it is highly unlikely. But, no matter how many men I may have known, the fact remains that I only remember one._  
  
 _An Altmer. Rather young, for this race of mortals, but letting the wisdom of the years shine in the jade and amber of his eyes. Fair-haired, with an unkempt bushy mane and a knotted beard. I think that he is a bard; in some of my visions, he is bending over a lute, his long, delicate fingers dancing lightly over the strings - or throwing back his head, drinking water out of a glass after a long recital. I do not know why, but watching him at those trivial pastimes makes me feel oddly... happy. Or as close as a vampire can come to being happy. It is like watching the sun rise, only without being scorched by its rays._  
  
 _Strangely enough, even though I am aware of the danger the sun poses to our kind, I feel no hatred towards it - I have never told this to anyone, but I even go as far as regretting the part I have to play in Lord Harkon's plan to complete the prophecy about darkening the daytime skies. When the first golden rays glide along the solemn towers of our castle, my heart seems so very, very close to beating once again... And the Altmer from my visions, with his skin mirroring the colour of the sun beams that mesmerize me so much, stirs a flicker of warmth in my chest in precisely the same way as they do. I smile when, before my mind's eye, he looks up at me, when he holds out his hand and clasps my fingers within his, when he kisses me... I smile at him no matter what I see him doing._  
  
 _I see him falling to his knees in a play, reaching up with his hand, with a prop dagger sticking out between his shoulder blades and the audience roaring in admiration when the curtain falls before him. I see him pausing on the top of a rocky slope he has just climbed, his eyes growing dim and dreamy at the sight of the beautiful landscape that unfolds at his feet. I see him smiling a slow, blissful smile as he awakens for the first time after his wounds have been healed - so I deduce from the bandages that cover almost every inch of his body - applied by my own hand, perhaps? I see him laughing sheepishly and trying to rub an ink smudge off his nose. I see him drawing himself up to his full height, his eyes ablaze with anger, ready to charge at the man who has apparently insulted me. I see him lying on his back, bare-chested, his hands clasped round my wrists, his expression dazed and happy, drunken almost._  
  
 _I do not know this man's name, or his exact relation to my mortal self - but every time that he appears, I forget about my life at the castle, and my duties to the Clan; I am completely absorbed by these shadows of the past, and when the sun sets and they are dispelled, I feel, for a fleeting moment, deep, wounding bitterness... Because the life that this man is part of is no more. Because there will be no more long walks, hand in hand, down the narrow, winding paths of the volcanic tundra, us starting and hugging one another tightly whenever a jet of steam bursts out of the ground right in front of us. No more quiet evenings at the fireside, his wild-haired head on my knees. No more rapid, violent caresses, no more rolling on the floor in each other's arms and knocking over furniture. No more sonnets to be recited, me mocking his every metaphor, every rhyme, and him throwing up his arms in desperation... all an act, for at the end of these particular visions I always thank him for dedicating yet another poem to me, and kiss him on his tall, sloping forehead. No more long lectures on stylistics and the theory of literature, which I, in my visions, listen in on in the doorway of a classroom, drinking in his profile and revelling in the sound of his loud, agitated voice, marvelling at how well-read, how intelligent he is. No more drifting off to sleep, shielded from the darkness of the world by the protective warmth of his body. No more childish tag games in the bright sunshine. No more..._  
  
  
  
I shift aside, smiling apologetically at the apprentices. Of course, being young, they must feel infinitely curious about the rites the priest of Arkay is performing - and, tall as I am, I get in their way. They huddle together, their whispers rustling like fallen leaves in the golden groves of the Rift; in their faces, there is fear and anxiety - and, just as I suspected, eager interest in what the priest is doing. I can feel the corners of my lips twitch... Human youths; they do wear they hearts on their sleeves. There was a time when I found myself feeling just as openly, just as strongly about everything as they do. But now, nothing remains. Just a hollow, dark space, where memories linger, leaving deep gashes in their wake like rivers of lava shaping foyadas in the distant homeland of my Illa.  
  
The old man moves up and down the terrace, casting strange, faintly glowing golden runes on the stone floor and chanting a prayer to Arkay over and over again.  
  
'I can't believe this is real,' Pantea says shakily somewhere behind my back. Even though I cannot see her face, I can picture her expression, blank and utterly lost - just like those of most of my fellow bards. It seems that I alone remain only mildly moved by what is happening... Even now, the memories crowd inside my mind, and I find it so hard to remain focused...  
  
Inge snorts loudly, in wholehearted agreement.  
  
'Vampires at our doorstep! What is the world coming to?!'  
  
'How... How can you be so sure?' Giraud asks, trying to attract the priest's attention with a polite cough. 'That the College is the target of one of those horrible attacks? That they are planning to... turn one of us?'  
  
One of the girls - Illdi - whimpers at those last words of Giraud's; out of the corner of my eye, I can see Ataf, who is standing near her, put his arm protectively round her shoulders. These two have been together for a few weeks, after a very awkward, and very sweet, confession. I have appointed myself a sort of father figure for the youngsters... Losing my own love has made me very protective of the love of others. I would not wish anyone to live with pain akin to that festering within me.  
  
The old man looks up from the lines of light he is drawing at our feet.  
  
'I received an unsigned letter only this morning, stamped with a sun-shaped seal - warning me that Clan Volkihar has plans to claim someone from the Bards' College,' he explains as he paces around the entrance, checking the runes. 'I would have dismissed it as a hoax - but the other brothers of my order have received several similar messages over the past few months - and each time, they turned out to be true. A letter like this is always followed by a vampire attack, precisely in the way it is described. It is uncanny, but these warnings have helped my fellow priests prepare proper protective magics and save many lives... Well,' he stops and passes his hand thoughtfully over his beard. 'I think all is ready; these wards will prevent the vampires from entering the College. I will go and give signal to the guards - all you can do is stay inside and pray to the Eight to bring the morning more quickly'.  
  
With a curt nod, he hobbles away, fighting his old age in an attempt to walk as fast as he can.  
  
'Look at the old man,' Jorn says quietly. 'What if he runs into those... monsters? Maybe someone should go with him... I could...'  
  
I turn towards him and place my hand on his shoulder.  
  
'He will be fine, boy,' I say firmly. 'He knows how to fend off that spawn of darkness... Now, remember what he said. We should all go inside now. Come on. We have to stick together if we are to live till morning'.  
  
Ah, a distraction. A blessed distraction. This is just what I need. Now, to usher everyone inside. To bolt the doors shut. To oversee the distribution of blankets - naturally, everyone refuses to spend the night in their own separate quarters, and we agree to sleep all bundled up together on the floor, within easy reach of one another. To comfort those who are weeping openly, and exchange forced smiles and jests with those who are pretending to be brave. We make ourselves as comfortable as possible, under the circumstances - and I keep myself busy, maneuvering among blankets, bending down to every bard, asking if anyone needs anything, giving a tight hug to a shivering Ataf, prodding Giraud in the shoulder to stop him from going into a terrified stupor, bringing a half-hysterical Aia ('Gods no! I am too talented to die!') back to her senses with a necessarily harsh 'Keep quiet!', for which I promptly apologize... And as I get more and more absorbed in my role as the guardian and counselor and caring friend to all of the bards of the College, I feel the memories withdraw, and the pain recede... For the time being.  
  
Finally, everyone settles down, and I, too, sink to the floor, next to Inge, who wraps a blanket round my shoulders without saying a word, without as much as smoothening her eternal frown. We freeze in our awkward poses, listening to stifling silence descend upon us, waiting for the darkness outside the protective walls of the College to come alive...  
  
  
  
  
 _I perch myself on the edge of a roof opposite the Bards' College, cloaked in shadows like in a royal mantle, invisible to the mortal eye, and smile. The priest has cast the runes; I can sense their burning glow even from afar. These mortals are smarter than most of our clan seniors give them credit for - all it took was one little skirmish in Markarth for the priests of Arkay to start taking my letters seriously. Good thing that when I sent my first warning, which the local priest carelessly disregarded, the target had been a Thalmor officer. That fellow was quite capable of defending himself without charms or runes. Watching him shower my brethren with fireballs almost made me wish that they **had** turned him. He would have made one deliciously horrifying vampire. But I have my principles._  
  
  
 _I enjoy my gift - heeding the dark call of the night, sweeping down on unwary targets in some bandit fort and wreaking havoc amongst them in my majestic Vampire Lord form... But I have always been firmly, stubbornly against turning mortals into vampires - especially those random targets Vingalmo is so fond of selecting. It does not feel right, tearing them out of their familiar daywalker world and plunging them into darkness and decay. They are not like me; before I joined the Clan, I had no life to speak of - but they do. And I can't deprive them of those lives, of the beauty of the golden sunlight that they bask in without appreciating it - and I can't let others do it either. Every time I walk among sleeping mortals, and lean down, and listen to their drowsy breath, and finally my teeth into their soft, warm flesh and sate my hunger - I leave a phial with a potion that cures all diseases at my victim's bedside, to cleanse the infection from my bite... And every time the Clan plans a raid on a mortal town, I warn the local priests of Arkay, so that they may use their magic to protect our targets._  
  
 _So I have done this time as well, and I linger in Solitude to make sure that everything goes according to plan. Somehow, this particular raid seems... different to me. Special. I cannot fathom why - but there it is, an odd feeling gripping at my heart. The little play I have set in motion has to act out in precisely the way I intended, or else something terrible will happen..._  
  
 _At long last, I see a dark swirling cloud creep down the street, hissing and whispering and leaving a fine silvery crust of ice on the cobblestones. As it reaches the College, it shoots up into the air, forming three tall columns of black mist, which shape themselves into three dark-cloaked figures. Two women and a man, one of our Clan's most bloodthirsty master vampires and his escort. Pallid, bat-like faces. Bloated lips, parched with the lust for hot, bubbling red drink. And yellow eyes ablaze with the fever of the hunt._  
  
 _They stride towards the College entrance - and leap back, hissing and spitting, as the runes flash a bright, blinding gold, making me cover my eyes for a moment. When my vision clears, I catch sight of guards advancing at my kin out of shadowy alleys, axes bared. Seeing that the three vampires are still disoriented, the leader of the group, the only guardsman without a helmet - quite handsome, too, with his dark hair and beard and rugged Nord features - charges forward and strikes down the master vampire with an abrupt downswing. The gash left by the axe in my poor brother's shoulder lets off wisps of dust and oozes dark, thick blood - I can see it all from where I sit, my senses sharpened by my gift. I hurry to start the second act of the little play, straightening up and cupping my fingers, feeling their tips pulse faintly, coursing with dark magic. When an orb of silvery blue light swells up in each of my hands, I relax my fingers and watch my spell whirl through the still night air and hit its targets. The two women, who have already rushed to their master's aid, clawing at the front of the guards' armour, cursing and draining the mortals' strength with their touch, fall back and grab at their heads and break into a run, rays of light twisting round their legs like ghostly shackles. The master vampire soon follows suit, rising from his knees and pushing the guards aside. The mortals exchange most precious flabbergasted glances and rush after my kin - but, with a soft fluttering sound, the three vampires turn into bats and soar upwards, lost in the diamond dust of the stars before the guards' jaws even finish dropping._  
  
 _I leap down from the roof, thoroughly enjoying my own cat-like grace as I land on the pavement without as much as a scratch. The Turn Undead spell, which I seem to know from my previous existence, works like a charm. This way, I spare my kin from being slaughtered by angry mortals - and keep the targets safe too. Those poor hungry souls, they must be infuriated now! I smirk as I picture their faces. How they must be cursing the Dawnguard as they fly back to the castle, humiliated and yearning for blood... I have done all I could to pin my little warnings on those bothersome vampire hunters. Even stole their special seal from some messenger I lulled to sleep with my powers... A young, fair-haired lad, with an open, honest and naive face. Agmaer, I think his name was; I saw it sewn to the inside of his pack as I rifled through it. I made him dream about making love to our Lady Serana - because I thought it would be a priceless practical joke._  
  
 _So now the word is out in the street that the Dawnguard are doing all they can to thwart vampire attacks. These rumours make Lord Harkon furious; perhaps when the biting party returns to the castle, he will order an expedition to hunt the hunters... I am always game for some crossbow-dodging._  
  
  
The sounds of fighting outside do not last for long; soon after the night erupts into loud cries and hisses, everything falls quiet again.   
  
'D-do you think they are gone?' Illdi asks through a loud sniff.  
  
'We will know by morning, child,' I reply, as gently as I can. 'Try to sleep'.  
  
With a shuddering sigh that still echoes with her recent frightened sobs, she nestles on Ataf's chest and lets her eyelids slide shut. He holds her close to him, brushing back her hair gently; I hurry to look away before the memories return and my heart starts aching again. One by one, the bards around me close their eyes and drown their worries in the waters of oblivion - and finally, when morning starts creeping in like a Khajiit wrapped in gold and pink silks - Illa used to love that metaphor, and, with a pang of pain, I always repeat it to myself when I watch the sun rise - I, too, fall into uneasy sleep. And I dream a dream.  
  
  
_I leave Solitude behind, climbing higher and higher up the mountain slopes, breathing in the crisp fresh air that mortals breathe, not in too much of a hurry to return to the rank, stagnating dungeons of Castle Volkihar. As the horizon over the Sea of Ghosts springs aflame, I hurry to find shelter in a small cavern, once inhabited by some wild beast. I close my eyes and sink into sleep. And I dream a dream._  
  
  
I see myself walking along the frozen surface of a wintry lake, watching blue shadows glide back and forth beneath my feet.  
  
 _I see myself lying on the bottom of a lake or a river, gazing upwards at a thick, shimmering layer of ice that separates me from the rest of the world. Suddenly, I see a shadow move overhead, a man walking high above on the roof of my dark, cold world. Feeling irresistibly drawn to that man, I allow myself to float upwards, press my palms against the smooth ice crust and peer through it._  
  
I start and cry out as a ghastly, dead face suddenly surfaces right beneath my feet, yellow eyes gazing at me intently, and pale hands start clawing at the ice from below. I drop to my knees and brush a thin layer of snow off the ice with my hands to be able to see the face more clearly... And gasp for air, my chest erupting into flames. It is her. Illa. My Illa. Her beautiful features distorted into a skull-like mask. Her blazing, passionate eyes now blank and cold. Her hair billowing in the icy water like silvery seaweed. Gods, dear gods, what has happened to her?!  
  
 _It is him; the man from my visions. He looks at me, terrified, and through the ice, I can see tears streaming down at his cheeks. I call out to him - though I do not know his name, the words to address him with come easily, naturally, as if they have always been there, waiting to be spoken.  
  
'My love!'  
  
He cannot hear me; the ice is too thick... _  
  
Her lips move, as though she is trying to say something, but no sound comes. With a wail of desperation, I pound at the stone-hard, scorchingly cold crust with my fists till my skin gets covered with a net of bleeding cracks - but I cannot break through to her.  
  
_He thrashes at the unyielding ice in an attempt to reach me; the water round me throbs with the rhythmic beating of his fists, and thin threads of red slowly crisscross the glassy roof over my head. I gaze up at his face, watching his helpless suffering, and my heart comes alive, aching, longing... And just at that moment a powerful force rises from the lake's bottom, unseen, yet so dark, and I am dragged back into cold silence, away from the sun, away from the noiselessly screaming Altmer, away from my life._  
  
With one final, soft smile, she sinks deeper and deeper into the dark water, till I cannot see her any longer, staring blankly into the impenetrable murk beneath the ice...  
  
I _wake_ up _completely_ drained _and_ crushed _and_ trembling _in_ pain.


End file.
